Back in the USSR
by PaperbackPeace
Summary: MCHARRISON (well actually maybe not, but I view it as McHarrison. Could be brotherly love, I guess?) Anyway, it's just the Beatles on a plane and all the stuff that happens to them in the 9 hours that that entails. Paul and George centric, for the simple reason that my LIFE is mainly Paul and George centric but hey :) AND NOT ACROSS THE UNIVERSE. Beatles, sorry :)


BACK IN THE USSR

Disclaimer: I DON'T OWN THE BEATLES. I know. It's sad, isn't it? But hey, I can listen to their amazing music and fantasize about their amazing faces, so it's all fine in the end, right? Anyway, enjoy :)

'Georgie?'

I feel the gentle hands of someone prodding my arm, his voice worming its way into my consciousness, the weird sensation of waking up from a very real-seeming dream, the fuzziness of not-so-sharp perception preceding sleep.

'Georgie? Are you awake?'

I grunt, force my eyes open and scowl into Paul McCartney's face with as much forcefulness as I can muster, because sleep is a very rare and important thing for me and I need as much as I can get. No seriously. I'm being honest. If I don't, anyone in close proximity to me at any given time will suffer for it.

'I am now. Thanks to _you._'

I _know _I sound like a petulant child but honestly, he should have at least _thought _before agreeing to sit next to me for the 9 hours it should take for us to get back from America to England. And he should have thought before waking me up.

He blinks, leans back from my face, and I turn to look out the oval-shaped window to my right, to look away from him. We can't have _that _long left to go, can we? We had been going for four hours before I fell asleep, so surely, _surely_, we're over half the way there? Surely.

'We're delayed.'

'Huh?' I don't look round and I don't look round and I don't look round.

'An extra hour.'

I turn to face him again. 'And?'

He looks at me like I'm dumb. 'We're delayed an extra hour.'

'Yes you've said that Paul.' A nod from my companion in the seat to my left. 'But why wake me up?'

He frowns. And _I'm _the thick one.

'I could have _slept through _the delay and be none the wiser for it. And you woke me up. And now, _now_ I'm awake. And _none _the better for it.' I turn once more to face the window. I'm being mean; I know I'm being mean. But he woke me up. The idiot.

'George, you need to tell your mum and dad. They're picking us up, remember? You need to get Brian to send them a message or something, so they're not waiting for ages for people who aren't even going to arrive yet.' I can feel him smile into his words. '_That's _why I woke you up.'

Whatever. 'You could have asked Brian to contact them for me.' _Without _waking me up.

He shrugs. 'Yeah…' And his grin widens without my even looking at it. 'But it's funner this way.'

I groan. This was going to be a _long _trip.

**oOo**

My attempts at trying to get to sleep for a _second _time aren't working. I have refused to be Paul's entertainment, and have informed him of this in _no _uncertain terms, Brian is snoring behind me (_I can't ask him to contact my parents anyway, because Paul is disallowing me to wake him_ _up, which is stupid_) and John and Ringo are playing hand games very, _very _loudly. And I just want to yell at everybody to shut up. There is a girl with a baby two rows ahead which is screaming at the very top of its lungs and I think Paul is writing a song, because he's humming under his breath which is distracting and I can't can't _can't_ get to sleep and I want to sleep but I _can't _and I have a headache and I JUST WANT TO GO TO SLEEP and please. I just want to sleep.

But no. One wouldn't be so lucky.

'George.'

It's Paul.

'George.'

Who else?

'George.'

I'm not going to answer him.

'George.'

Oh God.

'George.'

**I'm asleep.**

'George.'

My _ignoring _tactic doesn't seem to be working.

'George.'

'WHAT?!'

The annoying noise which was five seconds ago very close to my left ear is silenced as I sit bolt upright with a face like thunder and glare at the _stupid, stupid, stupid –_

'Can you think of a word rhyming with _sky_?'

'_What_.'

'Sky.'

I blink. Then – 'Die.'

And revert back to my former position. Slumped as far away from Paul McCartney as is achievable, head resting against the window, trying to avoid him however possible.

I can barely hear the muttered 'thank you' but I do. It does make me smile. It does. And I know he's being sarcastic, but it makes my mouth lift up in a little grin, and thankfully, _thankfully, _I don't think he can see but it makes me happy.

I hear him sigh in what seems to be satisfaction. He's not going to stop talking is he?

'Bright are the stars that shine

Dark is the sky

I know this love of mine will never DIE.'

I feel his smile. He smiles a lot, Paul. It's yet another distracting thing about him. It makes it even worse that every time I _know _he's smiling, I just want to turn around and look at him, because he has the most beautiful smile I've ever seen.

But I don't.

'Brilliant.' It sounds sarcastic, even when I say it. 'Now let me sleep.'

His smile widens. Silly Paul. Never taking life seriously. Never taking _me _seriously. He sighs, ever more dramatically, and speaks _yet again. _'You _can _lean on me, if you want to.'

My eyes open. And I sit up to look at him.

His smile is wider than I thought.

'It's just you look really uncomfortable and _really _annoyed.'

I stare at him. Because actually I really _would _like to lean on him.

But I won't.

Because that would be giving in.

'No, thank you.' My voice is stiff and I'm already retreating back to my corner.

He chuckles. 'Okay.' And hums his song again. Just slower this time. It almost sounds like a lullaby. It's relaxing.

But then he talks again. 'Hey John.'

My eyes snap open as something akin to jealousy (but which I know is not) courses up my spine. I don't lift my head.

'Yes Paul.'

'Listen to this.'

And Paul sings his little song and my anger levels rise a little higher. I don't know why. It just annoys me.

John speaks into the silence that follows and I frown a bit more. 'Yeah, that's gear Paulie. No, really fab.' And I can just imagine Paul's proud beam as John hands him yet another compliment. My stomach twinges. I pass it as guilt that I dismissed Paul's song so readily, a song that Paul was obviously proud of. It's nothing else. Just guilt. That's it. Guilt.

John goes back to his and Ringo's pat-a-cake and Paul turns back to me, and I look up and I can see it in his eyes that he's happy and very, very happy at that and I don't know why but I see red, and I'm not tired anymore and I need to talk.

'So when I compliment you, it's nothing, but when _he _compliments you, it's the best thing in the world, is that it?' And it all comes out in a rush of speech that probably all sounds blurred but I don't care. I just need to get it out.

Needless to say, Paul is no longer smiling. His expression is now … shocked maybe, or confused. I don't know. I don't really care to be honest. These words are made to hurt.

'What?' It's breathy, like a shaky laugh and maybe he doesn't get it. Maybe he just doesn't get it.

Or maybe he does get it, and he's playing dumb. 'You just dismiss me as nothing, but then _John's _the all high and mighty, right?' He frowns. I don't stop. '_Oh John, listen to my song I JUST made up because of how clever I am, oh John, look at me, I'm so great and fab and GEAR, oh John, tell me that you like how I look and how you think I'm so _pretty _and how I'm such a clever boy AGAIN, oh John, oh John, oh JOHN!' _

All the light has gone from his eyes and has been replaced with pure pain at my words. Guilt hits me like a battering ram and suddenly I feel so sorry I'm about to apologise but I don't, because I just want to see if I'm right. _I want to see if I'm right._

He opens his mouth and shuts it several times to no avail like he's a guppy fish and I'm just another child at the dentists who is peering down at him from my vantage point above his bowl and I can see the cogs working in his head, processing my words, trying to figure out an answer. It's a while before he finally he speaks, but I can see that his mouth is creased up at the edges, just a little bit, which is a good sign at least...

'Are you … are you _jealous _of John?'

Maybe not such a good sign then.

'No.'

My immediate answer doesn't seem to convince him of the fact, so I expand.

'I'm just saying, John's opinion seems to matter _a lot _to you. And you're _very _close. Really, really close. _Unnaturally _close.' It's hard to miss my hinting's.

The smile. 'You _are _jealous! I knew it! George, John's my song-writing partner. Of _course _I want to impress him. And he's my best friend. That's it. That's everything.'

I couldn't help it. I couldn't help the whisper. '_John's _your best friend.'

Paul giggles. 'Georgie. You're my best friend too. And Ringsy. And, yes, John as well.'

I sigh. Yeah. You stick to that story, son.

You stick to that story.

**oOo**

I think I'm dying of boredom. No. Really. I actually do. And I've been trying to sleep for what must have been at least half an hour, but it's not working and I'm fed up and tired and most of all, _really, really _bored.

'George.'

And what's worse is that God, he's talking again.

'Geor-'

'Yes.'

He seems surprised that I even answered him this time. 'Uh … Wh-what do poor people have, rich people need and if you eat you die?'

What. '…What the hell?'

A smile. Or rather, _another _smile.

'It's a crossword.'

'…Oh.'

I sit up. I can't be bothered to sleep, and I'm hopefully in a better mood than I was before. Fingers crossed.

'George.'

'Yes.'

'… How can trousers be empty but still have something in their pocket?'

'How many letters?'

'Four.'

'Hole.'

He smiles, but doesn't look at me as he scribbles in the answer. 'Thank you.'

I smile in return, but thankfully he doesn't see.

'John?'

My smile is gone.

'What do poor people have, rich people need and if you eat you die?'

The reply is dismissive and I hear the scorn behind the scoff. 'Doing riddles are we? Back to primary school?'

'Do you know the answer or not, Lennon?'

'Nah.'

'Fine. S'all you needed to say.'

And we go back to doing the crossword.

**oOo**

He's asleep.

And I am _so _going to wake him up.

But…

It's his face, I think. The way it's slumped slightly to his right so it looks like he is contemplating resting on my shoulder but doesn't have the courage to do so, or the fact that his expression is the most peaceful I've ever seen it, or the way his lips are ever so slightly parted and the breaths are slow and quiet and suddenly, _suddenly_ I realise I'm staring at them, at those lips and I _can't look away. _They're _amazing_. They're –

Oh God. I shouldn't be thinking like that. I should _not _be thinking like that.

So I wake him up.

'PPPPAAAAUUUUULLLLLLIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!'

And he jolted up so suddenly that I'm almost sorry.

Almost.

…Almost.

And then he catches sigh of me and grins, rubbing his eyes to deter the fuzz (that I am all too accustomed to), chuckles. 'We're square now, yes?'

I find myself nodding.

'Good.'

**oOo**

'Could we please have your autographs?'

The women have been staring at us for a while now (well, more Paul maybe, but that's only because he is on the outside of our seats as opposed to next to the window) and one of them has plucked up the courage to come speak to us.

'Yeah, sure.' This is Paul.

One of them hands a picture with him on over and Paul uses the discarded crossword pen to sign it, grinning all the time as he squiggles over it and afterwards he makes to give them to me but the girl stops him and takes the autograph back.

I end up signing a paper towel.

And by the time the girls have left, Paul is in a fit of hysteric giggles from which he can't escape and I am in a very, very bad mood. Because today is evidentially _not _my day.

And the fact does _not _make me happy.

**oOo**

The first jolt of the plane makes me jump. My head is on Paul's shoulder and his head in on mine and I think he's asleep but I'm not, because of the wind which hits us like a battering ram and the fact that the woman in front of us has just been very loudly and very violently sick into a paper bag.

I wake him up but honestly I couldn't care less.

'You ok there Georgie?' His voice is slurred by the fuzz of interrupted sleep and the plague of exhaustion.

'It's hammering out there.'

He smiles. But he doesn't seem too fazed by the torrent of rain and the storm outside. Shutting his eyes again, he nestles into the crook of my shoulder, the part below my collar bone but above my armpit and sighs (or I think it's a sigh. I don't know what else it could be). 'You're comfy.'

Although it sounds a bit more like, 'you'recomfee,' when he's so tired. It makes me smile in spite of my nerves and I resist wrapping my arm around him because that is the given action for humans; they like to cuddle and though he's my best friend (or one of them, according to him), it's a bit _too _intimate to be hugging him right now, just when he's sleeping. He looks like he wants a hug, however, when the plane jolts again and he jumps.

I laugh through the fear.

'You ok there Paulie?'

I'm mocking him really, but what else can you do? He blinks and smiles at me, though he doesn't look quite so sleepy anymore, and he sits up, hands knotted together as he attempts to peer out the little side-window by my head to gaze at the turmoil outside. He seems fixated for a while before the plane jolts for a third time, this one far more violent than the previous ones, and he starts, looking away from the window and looking slightly pale. I feel a pang of pity, somewhere in my stomach. But it's easier to watch him being scared rather than be scared myself. So I just stare at him and wait for the announcement, informing us of the weather.

**oOo**

_Hello, ladies and gentlemen, this is the Captain here. We're sorry about the conditions at the moment, and are hoping that the weather clears up in the half-hour it should take for us to get to Gatwick, but for your own personal safety, could we please remind you for the remainder of the fight not to take off your seatbelt or get up from your present position from now onwards? We will attempt to land in London as normal. Thank you._

Paul, I think, is shaking. He is certainly very white, and can't keep still; his eyes dart everywhere and anywhere at the mere _shudder _of the plane and his hands are twisting in on themselves in his worriment. He had my hand a second ago.

Which was awkward.

But hey.

The weather, I think, is getting worse. Ringo and John have _stopped _their hand games and now the whole plane is silent, waiting for the wind. You could cut the tension with a knife. There is no joy in this flying metal box. Everyone feels trapped.

And to top it off, Paul looks as though he is going to cry,

**oOo**

_Hello again, this is the Captain once more. Though the weather has not yet relented, we are going to attempt to land the plane, as relocating airports may take another couple of hours. Thank you, and may I please reiterate the importance of not removing your seatbelt, or vacating your place. There is __**no need to panic. **__Staying calm is key in such a situation._

This does nothing to calm our nerves. In fact, it only makes us _more _fearful.

The plane sounds battered. We can all hear the mechanic whirring as the turbines try desperately to battle against the buffeting winds and honestly, I can't see how we're going to come out of this alive. Paul looks as though he's seen a ghost.

'They're going to land it? Land the plane? They can't _land the place. _They're going to … Ge, they're going to kill us. They're going to kill us all. We're going to… your parents…'

His voice is about an octave higher than it should be, and suddenly, _suddenly_, I hate to see him scared. I _hate _to see him scared. He shouldn't be scared. Paul is never, never scared.

But he's scared now. And I hate to see it.

'It's going to be ok, Paulie, it's going to be fine.' My voice is soothing, but it doesn't seem to help as he looks at me with those wide eyes and I _want to hold his hand. _'They wouldn't try to land it if they didn't think we could. If there was the _slightest _bit of doubt that we could. It's going to be fine, Paulie, don't worry.'

And I want to hold his hand and I want to hold his hand and I _want to hold his hand._

And I _really _want to hold it. I want to hold his hand. I really, really, really, really reallyreally_ reallyreallyreallyreallyreally _want to hold his hand,

So I hold his stupid bloody hand and have done, ignoring the niggling feeling in the back of my mind that it is wrong that it feels this good.

Which it isn't.

Though it does feel good.

**oOo**

Paul has joined hands with Ringo who has joined hands with John and I have Paul's hand, and Brian's who has Mal and there is a woman who is crying and there's a young man who is praying and an older man who's fainted and a baby that is screaming and Paul is really shaking and the plane, it keeps on spinning and the Captain isn't talking and the warning signs keep beeping and now another woman's crying and her husband is now sobbing and these children, they are weeping and nobody here is speaking and there's a baby that is screaming and Paul is really shaking and the plane, it keeps on spinning and suddenly I'm crying and I think that Paul's now crying though he's got me in an embrace and his hand is in my hair.

And he's muttering he loves me and he doesn't want to leave me and he's sorry he annoyed me and he'd give his live just for me and he really wants to save me and he wants to stop me crying, he thinks it's his fault that we're dying though in reality it's not, and says that I'm his best friend ever, thinks of things we've done together and he loves me, loves me, loves me and he doesn't want to leave me and he's crying in my shoulder and he's hugging me so tightly and he wants to stop me crying and it's not working a bit.

**oOo**

Our hands are so tightly linked that it's sore. There are silent tears pouring down his face as he strokes my hand absentmindedly with his thumb and tries just to look straight ahead. My heart is in my mouth at the moment, pounding and pounding and pounding and I'm vowing to myself that if ever, ever, _ever _we survive this experience, I'm never going on a plane again. Never. Not ever.

No.

**oOo**

I love him too.

**oOo**

I don't know how I love him, but I realise that if he were to die, I would be distraught, and I can tell him anything and I love it when he smiles at me. Maybe it might be just brotherly, or platonic in the highest possible way, or perhaps more, but I know that I love him back and honestly, it's refreshing to know that the feeling is mutual and he loves me too and we're going to die together, as one. It's refreshing in the least refreshing way ever.

**oOo**

He landed the plane.

And we got off.

And every single person on this stupid vehicle applauded him for about 10 minutes.

After we got off.

And all us four Beatles are telling each other how lucky we are to have each other (which is a bit soft, but hey) and Paul is telling John he loves him and Ringo he loves him and though it makes my heart twinge and jealously throw up in my stomach, I can see that Paul is telling them this in a different way to how he tells me. So that's fine. That's good.

It makes me feel nice inside. There's something different in his eyes when he says it to me.

My parents are running up to us now and my mum hugs me so hard I think I'm going to suffocate. She kisses me all over and for once I don't mind, because she's crying and I'm just glad to see her, even when I didn't think I was ever going to again and though she reprimands me, and I'm not allowed ever again on a plane I hug her back and I realise how much I love, I _love _my parents.

And then my dad is hugging me and my mum is hugging Paul, I think (what makes him so much like my brother is how well he gets on with my family) and John and Ringo are saying hi, and my dad is hugging me and I'm smiling and I'm so, so, so, so happy to be alive and I'm so happy to be alive.

And never am I ever am I ever am I _ever _going on a plane again.

Ever.


End file.
